


A Familiar Feeling

by Enjoloras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Also there's actually like a tiny bit of lowkey smut in this one which is wild I'm usually a coward, Arranged Marriage, Canon Era, I promise, M/M, Trans Enjolras, despite these things it won't be an unhappy one, so like enjoy that if it's what you like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-07-25 17:25:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16202192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: Grantaire's father is tired of his ways bringing a stain upon the family name.Enjolras' family is determined to marry off the difficult only 'daughter' that refuses every suitor they present.It so happens that these two situations coincide in a way that both families cannot refuse.It also so happens that Enjolras' secret double life of sneaking out to the Musain each night is about to come back to bite him when the cynic is presented to him as a suitor. Fortunately, it could work out quite convenient for the both of them...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will honestly be a lighthearted, fun fic - but the first chapter comes with a bit of misgendering of Enjolras, and some nasty comments/heavy topics from their families. So I'm sorry for that! But it will get much better, I promise!

“Must you really do that so early?”

Grantaire sighed, setting down the bottle of gin in his hand, “There is pitiful all else for me to do with myself at this time of day, mother,” he said.

“And that is your own doing, boy,” His father said coldly from across the table, “You have had countless opportunities – more than most grateful children are ever given.”

Grantaire pursed his lips, refusing to rise to the bait. 

“How are Louise and Emmeline?” he asked conversationally instead, fingers itching for the gin bottle in front of him.

“Well enough,” His mother said, folding her hands in her lap.

“Still unwed,” His father grumbled, “They will be spinsters at this rate.”

Grantaire smiled privately to himself; he was quite certain Louise's interests lay with the fairer sex, and Emmeline had always been adamant about commanding her own fate. It did not surprise him in the slightest that they both resisted the bonds of matrimony,

“They are not so old,” His mother said, “Louise is not yet twenty.”

His father did not comment, his jaw set in silent disapproval.

When Grantaire had first received the letter from Auvergne he had nearly tossed it into the hearth, and would have done, for that matter, had it not been written in his sister's hand.

Four years ago his parents had sent him off to Paris to study under Gros – far less out of a desire to see him excel in the arts than it was to remove him from their sights. It had been more an exile than them acquiescing to his wishes, but Grantaire had gone without complaint. 

When Louise had told him they were planning to visit him in Paris, Grantaire had been melancholy with dread. He did not care to write to them, much less see them in person. There had never been an abundance of warm familial feelings between he and his parents. His father had made his fortune accounting for wealthy families, and by his reckoning his only son being poorly equipped to take on the family business was the greatest tragedy that could befall a man. 

“So to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Grantaire asked, deciding there was no use dancing around the subject any longer than necessary for the sake of propriety. He knew there could be nothing but some ulterior motive behind their appearance in Paris. 

“There is an important matter we must discuss with you,” His mother said. 

“Oh?”

“Yes,” His father said, “You are to be married,”

Grantaire froze, thinking perhaps that he had misheard him; his reaction seemed to amuse his father terribly. Of course it did – he had always reveled in whatever cruelty he had dealt him.

“Yes, you heard correctly, boy,” He said, smirking, “We have found you a bride.”

“I am not ready to be married.” Grantaire said instantly, “Believe me, I am quite content to remain a bachelor!"

Content may not have been the right word, Grantaire thought, but it served well enough. He lived his life a wretched libertine, and he liked it that way. His small, finely furnished lodgings were just enough for him, and to idle his days away in bistros and wineshops gambling and drinking suited him just fine. It was not only inconvenient to his habits for him to take a wife, but outright cruel; no woman deserved such a miserable fate as to be tied to him.

“You do not have a say in it,” His father growled, “You are my son and you will do as I say you will.”

“I am my own man,” Grantaire protested, “I no longer live under your roof.”

“Yet you take my money every month, do you not?” His father challenged, “What if that were to stop? Would you be your own man then, I do so wonder? You are a failure in all walks of your life. Do not fool yourself into thinking you could go on living so comfortably without my support.”

Grantaire felt the bile rise in his throat. He was correct, of course, though he loathed it. He was sure it spoke poorly of his character, but Grantaire found he would much rather be married than impoverished, even at some unfortunate woman's expense. He could have lived without fine furnishings, but the wine and the dominoes had too tight a hold over him for poverty to suit him. 

“Father,” he said, “Please be reasonable..."

He wondered why he even asked – to mediate with his father was an impossible feat. He knew it well enough from experience, but desperation compelled him to try.

“As long as you wish to continue receiving your allowance you will do for our family whatever I say you must,” His father said, “There is no discussion to be had.”

Grantaire looked down, feeling sick to the pit of his stomach.

“She is a fine match,” His mother said gently, reaching across the table to lay her hand on his, “You may yet grow to like her.”

“Do not coddle the boy, woman,” His father snapped, seizing her wrist and pulling her hand away from his.

Grantaire stiffened; even now he bristled to see the way he mistreated her. Had he been a man of more merit he might have stood against him.

“She is from a great family from Limoges.” He said, still holding onto her arm with a vicelike grip. It seemed to Grantaire as though he were holding her hostage.

“Blue-blooded as they come,” he continued, “Her dowry is some hundred-thousand francs.”

Grantaire's eyes widened, “A hundred-thousand?” he echoed, “I...then she is clearly too far above me, father,” he said, “My sisters dowries are maybe ten thousand a piece. We made our wealth through work, not high birth. How can her parents think to lower her so significantly as to accept _me_ for a suitor? What have I to offer her, but the house in Auvergne, this hideous face of which you have bequeathed me, and a life of misery?”

His mother gave him a sympathetic look.

“She is...difficult,” she started, “Many say she is unmarriageable.”

Grantaire frowned, “For what reason with such good breeding and wealth behind her? Is it her looks? If so, I have not the place to complain,”

“No,” His mother said, “She is rumoured to be a great beauty.”

“Then what dissuades the men of her own rank?”

“She stabbed a young baronet in the hand with an oyster fork,” His father put in, as though it were only a trivial detail, “I have heard that she told him he was fortunate it was not his manhood.”

Grantaire's eyes grew wide; he crossed his legs underneath the table almost unconsciously. 

“And you wish _me_ to marry her?” he clarified, “Forgive me – have you quite lost your wits?”

“Do not speak so boldly to me, boy!” His father barked.

“I am not a boy! I am near thirty!” Grantaire snapped, “And I will not marry this girl who clearly has no desire to be married!”

“You will do as I say!” His father stood abruptly, towering over him, and suddenly, for all Grantaire's objections, he felt eight years old again, trembling beneath the threat of his father's heavy hand.

“You will marry this girl and make our fortune for us.”

“You are mad, Monsieur!”

“As a fox,” His father bit out, “You will marry her and continue the family name. It is all you are any good for.”

Grantaire recoiled, “And how should you expect me to continue the family name if my wife castrates me with a letter opener?” he challenged, “It shall be quite difficult for me to provide you with a litany of grandsons if I am missing the required appendage or if she refuses to take me into her bed.”

“You will find a way. Do whatever duty necessitates.”

There was a clear, unspoken implication to his words, and it made Grantaire's skin crawl.

“My god, what manner of brute do you take me for?” he said, aghast. 

“Please consider the match,” His mother begged, jumping in to change the subject, “It would thrust us forward into better society.”

“And that is worth my suffering, of course!”

“This is not for debate; there is nothing for him to consider. It is decided.” His father said flatly, “Return to your lodgings and wash the stink of smoke and wine from you. We have purchased you a fine new outfit at our own expense – we should expect some gratitude, for the effort.”

As he said this Grantaire watched as his mother retrieved a carefully wrapped parcel from at her feet, setting it on the table in front of him.

“It is well-tailored,” she informed him proudly, "You will look like a prince!”

Grantaire wanted to point out that the times had not been good to princes of late. 

“Tomorrow we are to call upon the family and present you.” His father said.

“Oh, so I have the privilege of meeting her before our wedding day?” Grantaire said drolly, “How truly fortunate I am!"

“Go,” His father commanded, giving no time to his sarcasm, “I will call upon you at nine sharp tomorrow morning. Do not be late.”

 

-

 

That night Grantaire walked back to his lodgings slowly, diverting his thoughts with a bottle of wine. He did not wish to be married, but he feared the sting of poverty far more than he feared the bondage of wedlock. Perhaps he was a wretch, for he could not bring himself to spare some poor girl an unhappy marriage by refusing his father's wishes. _Forgive me_ , he thought - a silent prayer to someone he had never met. 

 

-

 

True to his word his father was waiting outside his lodgings the next morning, dressed as though he thought he were going to Versailles and tapping a cane impatiently on the cobbles.

Grantaire's outfit had been as grand as his mother had promised; a royal blue frock-coat made from heavy velvet, with gold buttons and brocade lining. Along with it came a shirt, a champagne coloured silk cravat, doeskin trousers and fine new boots. He did look exquisite, he had to confess – the coat was tailored beautifully, giving him a clinched waist and a broad chest. He'd shaved, sparing only his sideburns, and donned a dusty top hat from the back of his closet.

He felt a pang of sympathy for his betrothed as he admired himself in the mirror; dressing him up so finely was by far the most egregious example of false advertising he had ever seen in his life.

“You look agreeable,” His father said when he stepped outside, stopping him so that he could inspect him from head to toe. It was perhaps the closest thing to a kind word his father had ever said to him.

“Thank you,” Grantaire said grudgingly, “Where are we to, then?”

“Avenue Montaigne,”

“A little out of our realm, is it not?”

“Not for long,” His father insisted arrogantly, straightening the lapels of his coat, “Soon we will find ourselves elevated by your marriage, and such places shall be like home.”

Grantaire said nothing, falling silent at his side as they walked.

 

-

 

The address on avenue Montaigne was a fine town house, a grand, imposing building with wrought iron gates. It was about as fashionable a location as one could get, sitting on the very corner that turned out onto the Champs-Elysées.

“How grand,” Grantaire commented, as his father instructed the doorman to announce their arrival; even the doorman was better dressed than they were, and he looked down his nose at both of them as though he thought there had been a mistake.

Grantaire could already imagine the type of people who lived there, and he did not think for one moment that a new frock-coat and a close shave would fool them into thinking he was any kind of respectable.

“This is only their Paris residence, of course,” His father said as they waited to be allowed entry; he looked as though he were already imagining how he might run the household once Grantaire had been sold off in wedlock. 

“They own a grand estate in Limoges, too – the family home. They relocated here some six years ago so that their daughter might get a Parisian education.”

Grantaire's stomach turned over, “I am out of my depths,” he said, “Do not make me do this, father, please---”

“Enough,” His father said, cutting him short, “You will be thankful for this opportunity, and charming if it is within your power to be so, do you hear me?”

Grantaire grit his teeth, “Very well,” he said, giving him a stiff nod, “I will do my best to steal her heart,” he promised. In his head he was already concocting ways in which to sabotage his father's efforts.

At that very moment the doorman returned, still eyeing them both suspiciously, and welcomed them inside with a gesture of his arm.

 

-

 

The house was impossibly beautiful; every corner of every room spoke of wealth. Ornate mirrors lined the walls, and golden candelabras guided their way into a grand drawing room, with an intricately painted ceiling and a harpsichord at one end.

A finely dressed man whom Grantaire assumed to be the girl's father waited to greet them, arms folded behind his back and a pinched expression on his face. 

His father stepped boldly forward without invitation, giving a somewhat overly exaggerated bow, “Monsieur,” he said, “I cannot thank you enough for receiving us this fine day!”

“Yes,” The man said, an air of boredom about him, “Well, needs must...” he glanced sidelong at the door as a young maid entered the room.

“Madeleine, where is my daughter?”

“Still upstairs, Monsieur,” The maid said, “Shall I go and see if she is ready?”

“If you please.”

“This is my son, of whom I wrote about,” Grantaire's father piped up as the maid left to her task - his desperation to keep their presence relevant was pitifully transparent.

“He will be a fine match for your daughter, as we agreed.”

As he said this he turned to Grantaire, urging him with a threatening look to step forth. Grantaire did as he was bid, bowing.

“Monsieur,” he said.

“Him?” The man said, brows coming together in disapproval, “ So little by way of name, fortune or looks. How desperate we must have grown...”

Grantaire saw his father puff up his chest, indignant, “Monsieur,” he said, all charm and politeness that was so far from the man who had raised him, “I assure you, what my son lacks in appearance and rank he more than makes up for in...” he paused, as though he could not think of any virtue of Grantaire's to extol.

“In wit!” Grantaire put in with a smile, “I assure you, Monsieur, I have had a _fine_ education. Though my face is hardly pleasing and my fortunes are scant I will no doubt be fine conversation! I studied under Gros, and though I failed pitifully as an apprentice I did learn a _great_ deal...”

“Yes, I am sure you learned much studying under an artist,” The man said coldly, looking him up and down again with disdain, “Be aware, Monsieur, that you are the last person I would wish to see my dear Marie wed to. She is a beauty of fine breeding and great accomplishment – but she resists marriage, and her moods have been so tempestuous that every man of good standing and wealth that we have presented to her has rescinded their offers of marriage almost immediately.” he clenched his jaw, “But I have a great fortune, and I refuse to let my daughter go unmarried, else my sister's vile sons inherit everything when I am in the ground. If it were not of so much grave necessity to this family that she be married, I would sooner see my darling girl a spinster before I would on the arm of someone like you.”

He turned away before Grantaire could even think of a response, looking to the maid again as she came scurrying back into the room with a look of alarm and no daughter anywhere in sight.

“Where is that damned girl?!” he demanded.

“She is still upstairs, Monsieur,” The maid said, quaking, “I am sorry, I did try to get her to come down but she is refusing once again...”

“Hell below! I shall fetch her myself, then!” he cried, storming away without even bothering to excuse himself.

“Well,” Grantaire said after a while, “I think he rather likes me, don't you?”

“Do not be smart, boy,” His father spat, “You are trying to make a poor impression on him.”

“I do no such thing!” Grantaire said, feigning outrage, “Do you think so poorly of me, father?”

“Of course I do, you wretch. You will not say another word unless spoken to if you ever wish to receive another sou from me, do you hear?”

 

-

 

Almost a half hour passed before the gentleman at last returned with his daughter on his arm, his face set in stony anger. The girl entered the room like she thought she was marching to the guillotine, her head down, her bonnet obscuring her face from view.

“Do look up, for heavens sake,” her father hissed into her ear, loud enough for Grantaire to hear him. She did not even flinch, something for which Grantaire could not help but admire her.

They stopped just in front of them, the girl still refusing to lift her head to acknowledge him. Grantaire wondered if she was concealing another oyster fork in the bodice of her dress, or if her father had just spent the thirty minutes trying to wrangle one from her.

“Damn you,” Her father snarled, “Do as we agreed and greet him, at the very least!”

The girl shook him off angrily, reluctantly dropping into a polite curtsy, “Monsieur,” she said tartly, in a voice that rang strangely familiar.

Her father lifted his chin proudly, “Monsieurs, may I present to you both my only daughter – Mademoiselle Marie Claudette Enjolras,”

At the exact same moment that Grantaire heard the name the young woman in front of him finally deigned to glance up, and he found himself staring straight into the bright blue eyes of the leader of Les Amis De L'ABC.

His heart all but stopped.

For an instant he was sure he was mistaken – he had to be, for the alternative made no sense in any world.

Perhaps it was that Enjolras simply had a sister or cousin who resembled him with an uncanny grace?

But then he saw the horror and recognition that flashed in Enjolras' eyes upon seeing him – the look of a rabbit that had just found itself caught in a snare - and he realised the truth.

“Say something, boy,” Grantaire's father urged, placing one hand firmly on the back of his neck as though to keep him from bolting.

“Oh, yes - of course,” He stammered, trying to recover from the shock.

He gave a little bow, legs shaking so much it was a wonder he didn't fall over.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said. He knew he ought perhaps kiss Enjolras' hand – it was the proper thing to do – but he could not move, and he did not think Enjolras would appreciate the gesture any more than he would at any rate.

“And you, Monsieur...” Enjolras said, voice trembling.

“Well? What do you make of her?” Grantaire's father asked; it was a coarse, unrefined thing to ask aloud, Grantaire thought.

“She is delightful,” Grantaire muttered, averting his gaze, “Very pleasing on the eye.”

He saw Enjolras curl his hands into fists at his side.

“And you, daughter?” Enjolras' father pressed, “Will you at least give this one the time of day?”

“Very well,” Enjolras agreed; he held out his hand for Grantaire to take, “Will you walk in the gardens with me, Monsieur?” there was a meaningful look in his eyes – an expression that begged him to hear him out.

“Of course,” Grantaire said, allowing him to lead the way. He saw the surprise that crossed Monsieur Enjolras' face – the look of a man who had tried so many times to marry his child off that he had as good as given up hope.

“My god,” he heard him say quietly to his own father, “This has never happened before. She will either marry him or kill him.”

Given the discomfort of the situation, Grantaire privately hoped for the latter.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the world's most awkward wedding night, ft. Enjolras being as pragmatic as ever and Grantaire panicking.

The gardens were beautiful, with a small grove of orange trees and a splendid fountain in the middle of the courtyard. Under any other circumstances Grantaire would have enjoyed them immensely – perhaps even brought a sketchbook and set about preserving them in charcoal – but at present his mind was racing, bursting with questions and painfully few answers. The two of them walked together in silence for a while, a chaperone lingering a short distance behind them; given Enjolras' history with suitors Grantaire thought it probably as much to protect his life as it was to protect Enjolras' virtue.

It was indeed Enjolras on his arm - of that there was no doubt, for Grantaire would have known him anywhere. But this was Enjolras as he had never seen him before; the proud, devoutly Republican man he watched with reverence from the shadows of Cafe Musain had been transformed before his very eyes, and Grantaire did not know what to make of it.

“Walk quicker,” Enjolras said under his breath, picking up the pace, “So that we may lose him.” he added, clearly referring to his chaperone. Grantaire nodded and the two of them began to walk faster, destined towards a small hedge-maze and turning a few corners once they were inside until Enjolras was apparently satisfied that they had evaded his escort.

The moment they were alone Enjolras whirled around to face him, managing to look fearsome even in a bonnet and leg-of-mutton sleeves. Yes, it was most certainly Enjolras.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, as though he thought Grantaire in alliance with his family.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Grantaire countered, outraged.

“This is my family home,” Enjolras snapped, stepping so close to him that Grantaire could see the fire in his eyes.

“Yes, that much has been made _very_ clear,” Grantaire said dryly, “I am simply obeying my father's wishes.”

“You yield to them so easily?”

“Yes! Forgive me my outrage but I did not expect to find _you_ as my betrothed!”

“And I had no idea it was _you_ my father was trying to sell me to,” Enjolras said, the anger in his eyes turning suddenly to panic, “You cannot tell anyone what you have learned about me today,” he said, seizing Grantaire by the arm, “You must swear it upon your life!”

“And what _have_ I learned about you today?” Grantaire said, gesturing to him, skirts and all, “You must explain, I beg. There is a very obvious discrepancy here between how I know you and how it transpires that you are...”

“I am not a woman,” Enjolras said instantly, “No matter how it may look. No matter my birth. I know it, in my heart and in my head. I am a man. Please, you must try to understand...”

The desperation in his eyes cut Grantaire to the quick. He nodded.

“Very well,” he said.

“Very well? That is it?” Enjolras furrowed his brow, “Are you not outraged? Do you not think me mad?”

“Of course not. You are one of the most disappointingly sane individuals I have ever met,” Grantaire scoffed, glancing around to ensure they were still alone, “And I have met other people like you before. I am a libertine, do you truly think me so estranged from such things?”

Enjolras looked stunned.

“I...well. Very well...” he said, “Good. Then you know that to breathe a word of my situation would ruin me.”

“I will not speak on it,” Grantaire said, “You have my word, for what little it is worth. Does anyone else know of this?”

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac,” Enjolras confessed, hugging his arms; the way he carried himself in a dress was far removed from the way he carried himself in his male attire, Grantaire noted. When dressed befitting his gender he walked tall and confident, a figure of righteous fury, but here, gathered in his skirts and petticoats, he seemed to shrink. It was a pitiful transfiguration that suited him ill.

“Courfeyrac helped provide me with appropriate clothing,” he continued, “Most nights I find a way to slip away to the Musain for our meetings. There is a door in the scullery that leads out into an alleyway – it is how I leave the house of an evening.”

“Of course you should find such clever ways around your obstacles,” Grantaire said in wonder, “That you should employ such cunning does not surprise me.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, “But I fear I have not the wits to relieve us of our present situation.”

“What situation?”

“Our parents wish us to be married,” Enjolras reminded him.

“Oh – yes, of course,” Grantaire said; in all the confusion and surprise he had quite forgotten his purpose in coming here.

“I do not know how to avoid it either, in truth. Believe me, I have no more desire to be a groom than you a bride. I am only here under the threat of being disinherited.”

“I have told my parents endlessly how I do not wish to be married,” Enjolras said, starting to pace, “They are persistent – far more than I had bargained. I had thought my earlier show of displeasure would make it quite clear to them that I would not accept any match they tried to make...”

“Yes, I heard about the unfortunate incident involving an oyster fork and a hand...” Grantaire said, raising his eyebrows.

“He was a pompous little whelp who deserved no less than what he got,” Enjolras insisted viciously; Grantaire held up his hands.

“Far beyond me to disagree,” he said.

“Damn my parents for their perseverance,” Enjolras muttered, more to himself, “I will not be married off and forced to live out my days embroidering and rearing children! It is a poor enough fate for a woman, let alone someone such as myself.”

“I...well, we need not fight this match, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, almost without thinking; to him the solution had been clear to begin with, but he realised now that his words might perhaps damn _him_ as the mad one of the two.

Enjolras stopped, baffled, “What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean that if they wish us to be married, then let us be married.” Grantaire said.

Enjolras scowled, “Forgive me, but was that not something we were both actively resisting?”

“Yes, yes, of course, but do you not see?” Grantaire said, somewhat frustrated that Enjolras had failed to understand his lunacy, “If we are wed to each other we cannot be wed to anyone else. It shall be a marriage of convenience. Our parents shall finally leave us be – I shall have your dowry and no doubt make my father well pleased, and your family shall have no more need to vex you about being unwed. We may find lodgings together, and you shall not have to live your life in skirts.”

Enjolras looked thoughtful for a while, apparently considering all the possible merits of their union.

“You would not expect me to live as your wife?” he asked, as though he suspected a trap.

“Of course not,” Grantaire scoffed, “You are a man, and therefore you cannot be a wife.”

“And this is not a trick?” he pressed, “You would not seek to hurt or ruin me? You would not expect me to...to give you children?”

“Of course not.” Grantaire said again, feeling rather like he would be repeating himself forever. In truth he had a mind to be insulted - for all his taunting he was not a cruel man. No, not at all – cruelty was the realm of the father, not the son.

“Enjolras, I mean this only as an arrangement of convenience,” he promised, “It is more a transaction of business than of the heart. I am not comfortable in my current situation, nor am I content to see you in yours.”

Enjolras stared at him, sharp blue eyes fixed on his as though searching them for any trace of a lie. It was intimidating and thrilling all at once beneath his gaze, Grantaire thought, and it had the breath shuddering out of him. Not a matter of the heart was perhaps a lie, at least on Grantaire's part, but he did not think Enjolras would wish to know that.

“Very well, then,” he said after a while, nodding to himself as though finally satisfied that Grantaire's intentions were honest ones, “In that case I shall consent to marry you. But you must swear to me that all you have spoken here is true – if you should ever raise a hand to me or dishonour me in some way I will ensure that you are repaid in kind.”

“I will be your most humble servant,” Grantaire vowed – and that, he knew, was the truth.

Before Enjolras could respond his chaperone appeared around the corner, looking as though he had been frantically scouring the hedge-maze in search of them. He had probably imagined himself in some desperate race to preserve Enjolras' virginity – ha! If he had only known how wrong he was.

“There you are!” he cried, seizing Enjolras by the arm and pulling him behind him almost protectively, “Mademoiselle, are you quite alright...?”

“Very,” Enjolras said tartly.

“Good,” His chaperone turned to Grantaire, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest, “Monsieur, this is not proper courting conduct!” he scolded, “Have you no sense of propriety?”

“Forgive me, Monsieur,” Grantaire said, feigning contrition, “I merely wished to speak with my betrothed in private...”

“Yes, well - that is _quite_ enough of that.”

 

-

 

Enjolras' agreement to the match came as a surprise to both families; neither side seemed quite able to believe how easily they had come to an accord.

“This is delightful news,” Monsieur Enjolras said, sounding wholly uncertain of his words; he looked as though he had almost hoped Enjolras might drive him away as he had with the last man to come courting.

No doubt he thought Grantaire ill-suited for the family. No doubt he was right.

“Are you certain of this, my darling?” he asked, turning to look at Enjolras with questioning eyes, “You are willing to accept _this_ match above the other fine choices?”

“Yes, father,” Enjolras said; Grantaire was amazed at how well he played the role of sweet, demure daughter when he needed to. He was a far finer actor than Grantaire would have ever given him credit.

“He has kind eyes,” he said, glancing at Grantaire.

“When will the wedding take place?” Grantaire's father pressed, so urgently that it could not have been more clear that he thought Enjolras might change his mind.

“Soon,” Monsieur Enjolras decided, “I shall make arrangements presently...”

“Very good,” His father said brightly, giving a low bow, “I am certain that the joining of our families shall bring prosperity and joy to both sides...”

“Oh yes, certainly,” Monsieur Enjolras muttered darkly, “I expect it shall.”

“Come, my boy, we have to find you wedding garments!” Grantaire's father announced, leading him away with a pat on the back.

“Say farewell to your beloved, for you shall see her next at the altar!”

 

-

 

The wedding was held on a bitter spring morning the following week, rushed under the unspoken assumption that Enjolras might withdraw his consent at any moment. Sunlight shone through the stained glass windows of the church, dappling the floor in colourful light and making Enjolras' hair shine like spun gold.

They took communion and said their vows, their breath coming out like fog on the cold air, so frigid that Enjolras had donned a fine silk pelerine over his wedding dress. He wore a veil throughout the ceremony, as though he could not bear to face the world, and the thought made Grantaire long to reach out and take his hand, to offer him some small degree of comfort where he could.

“What god has ordained, let no man put asunder,” The priest finished after what felt like a lifetime, blessing each of them in turn.

“You may now kiss your bride,”

They turned to face each other in unison, Grantaire carefully lifting back the sheer fabric from in front of Enjolras' face. He looked pale, his rose red lips trembling; Grantaire did not know if it were from nerves or the chill in the air.

“May I...?” he asked, quiet enough that it would stay between the two of them. Enjolras gave a barely perceivable nod, closing his eyes.

Grantaire leant forwards, bridging the gap, and kissed him chastely on the mouth.

“May I present to you all, Monsieur and Madame Grantaire,” The priest announced, to the unenthusiastic applause of a church full of Enjolras' family.

They did not seem any happier about the match than he or Enjolras did, and Grantaire thought it was fitting, really, that they should all be confined to this misery together.

He stepped back, Enjolras taking his arm as they turned to face their guests.

“You had best keep your word,” Enjolras whispered, a plea and a warning all in one.

 

-

 

A fine dinner and dance followed the nuptials, Grantaire and Enjolras finding themselves seated at the wedding table together as strangers came forward to congratulate them. He had never met most of the guests, and he doubted he ever would again, for all of them seemed to find the match unseemly.

“Your family do not like me,” He commented to Enjolras, sipping his champagne, “They think me beneath you.”

Enjolras did not respond, and Grantaire was not sure if it were because he privately agreed with them or that he simply did not wish to make conversation with him; both were equally as wounding.

“Oh thank the lord,” Enjolras whispered suddenly, rising to his feet; Grantaire followed his gaze to see two familiar figures weaving through the crowd to greet them.

“Combeferre, Courfeyrac,” he said, leaving the table to embrace them; they kept their distance, each of them kissing his hand rather than his cheeks.

“My dear friend,” Grantaire heard Courfeyrac say, “I am so sorry you have had to relent to your parents wishes after all! After the last instance I had truly thought they would finally let you be,”

“It is no matter,” Enjolras assured him, “Truly. I have found a way around their scheming,” he moved to the side, gesturing over to Grantaire; it seemed it had not even occurred to Combeferre or Courfeyrac to look to the groom.

“May I present my husband to you both,” Enjolras said. The surprise that crossed both their faces was almost amusing enough to make their ordeal worthwhile, Grantaire thought.

“Grantaire?” Combeferre said, as though he thought there was some mistaking his identity.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, “He knows of my...delicate matter, and so you see I shall not be doomed to a life in skirts after all,” he smiled, “We shall find lodgings near you,”

Grantaire thought he ought to have had some say in where they lived seeing as he was one half of this union, but he hadn't the heart to deny Enjolras anything, and so he did not complain.

“Well, isn't that a handsome solution!” Courfeyrac beamed, making his way over to Grantaire and shaking his hand.

“Handsome is hardly the word I would use,” Grantaire remarked, “It is good to have you both here. Familiar faces are welcome.”

“Our presence here comes at some risk to your spouse's reputation,” Courfeyrac warned, “Combeferre used to call upon Enjolras so frequently – and oft so secretly - that it raised a few eyebrows, I dare say. They thought Enjolras to be turning suitors away because he already had a lover...”

Combeferre grimaced, “A foul rumour,” he said, coming to stand beside Courfeyrac.

“You ought have thought of this idea sooner, my dear friend!” Courfeyrac said to Enjolras, “Combeferre or I could have made you a fine marriage!”

Enjolras laughed at the comment, and Grantaire felt the strangest pang of jealousy stir in his gut.

“Well, it is nice to see you,” he said, turning to face Enjolras, “We ought to dance now,” he advised, “People are looking at us.”

Enjolras winced, taking his hand when he offered it to him; he glanced back at his friends again, uncertain, “You will each save a dance for me, will you not...? If I am to endure this farce and be made to dance I should at least like to take a turn with each of you.”

“Of course! It is a gentleman's prerogative to dance with the bride," Courfeyrac joked, “But as there is not one present, I shall settle for you, dear friend!"

 

-

 

“Those rumours regarding you and Combeferre,” Grantaire asked as they danced, spinning together, “They _are_ only rumours, are they not...?”

Enjolras regarded him coldly, “And what would it be to you if they were not? This marriage does not make me yours. You said---”

“I know. Forgive me,” Grantaire said, looking down at how elegantly they both moved. It was one thing he was grateful for, at least – he was a fine dancer, if little else. At least the guests looking down on him for his birth could not utter a single complaint about his grace in that regard.

“I do not mean to speak out of turn,” he said.

“Yet you continue to open your mouth,” Enjolras mumbled, “Of course they are only rumours. Combeferre is like my brother.”

“It was merely curiosity,” Grantaire said. Enjolras fell silent.

 

-

 

Once the song had ended Enjolras broke away, disappearing in search of Courfeyrac and Combeferre before Grantaire could say anything else. He was tempted to follow him, to beg forgiveness once again, but as he contemplated this a familiar face appeared through the throng of people.

“Louise!” he said, feeling immediately lighter for seeing her.

“Oh my dear brother, congratulations,” Louise cried, running over to embrace him tightly; Grantaire wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her into the air with a flourish that made her laugh with glee.

“Brother, put me down!” she cried, grinning, “You will show everyone here my petticoats!”

“Ah, I would not think to dishonour you so!” He said, setting her down, “You look like beauty personified!”

“I hope I do not outshine the bride,” Louise said, glancing down at her dress and running her hands over the fabric, “It is the nicest thing I have ever worn – I feel like a princess! Mother had it made just for this occasion. I think it suits me rather well, don't you?”

“It does indeed.”

“The way father is talking I shall have more need of such fine clothes. He seems to think now that you are so bourgeois we will all be attending balls and dinners in the most respectable houses of Paris!”

“I doubt it very much,” Grantaire laughed, “My new spouse is not fond of such folly, I am afraid. Where is Emmeline?”

“She remained in Auvergne. She feared coming here should father try to match her with some pompous cousin...” Louise giggled.

“That is a very fair concern,” Grantaire said. He would not have put it past him.

“I have no fear of it – father cannot make me marry.”

“Do not be so sure of that – he has managed to get his way with me. I am hardly a willing groom.”

Louise smiled sadly, kissing each of his cheeks in turn, “I am sorry,” she said, “But surely it is not so bad? Your bride is beautiful.”

“I suppose.”

“And wealthy,”

“Most definitely.”

“Then what vexes you?” Lousie asked, “Do not tell me _you_ had grand ideas of marrying for love?”

“Love? Certainly not,” Grantaire snorted.

He could hardly tell her the truth - that he had long adored Enjolras but that his marriage had been sanctioned as one of convenience.

“I am mourning the loss of my freedom, sweet sister, that is all!” he lied.

“Freedom,” Louise scoffed, “You do not know a thing of losing your freedom! When women marry, we are as good as property. We cannot rule our own lives or manage or own money. A man may do as he pleases. Heavens, you need not even be faithful! You may keep as many mistresses as you care to!”

“Women are not exactly lining up to be my mistress,” Grantaire said, amused, “I have hardly the face for it.”

“What of men, then?” Louise smirked, raising one eyebrow.

“This is hardly fitting talk for a wedding.”

“Oh, you are no fun at all now that you are a married man,” Louise teased, “I shall leave you be, anyway. It is growing late and I am sure the new Madame Grantaire would loathe me to keep her husband from her...”

“You do not know how wrong you are, sweet sister,” Grantaire said, kissing her forehead, “Go along, before you are the next to be tied into such a monstrous contract.”

“Goodnight, brother.”

“Goodnight.”

He watched her go, swishing the skirts of her dress around happily, still bewitched by the novelty of her fine attire.

 

-

 

The dance went on for some time, and it was gone midnight before guests began to take their leave and Enjolras approached him again.

“We ought to be abed soon,” he said, “It is late.”

“Yes,” Grantaire agreed; he was desperate to escape the festivities and the judgemental gazes of Enjolras' relatives.

“Come, then,” he said, “Lead on.”

 

-

 

It was a strange thing, to be led to Enjolras' bedroom, but anything was a fine reprieve from the wedding party. He closed the door behind them once they were inside, finally feeling like he was able to breathe again with a barrier between them and the rest of the house.

“Thank god that is over,” he said, more to himself than to Enjolras, “I enjoy revelry as much as the next man, but this was hardly my occasion of choice.”

He heard movement behind him, the sound of Enjolras struggling out of his wedding gown, and remained facing the door to give him his privacy.

“Have Courfeyrac and Combeferre taken their leave...?” he asked conversationally.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, “They left some time ago.”

“It was nice to see them...”

“Very.”

There was a few minutes of silence, and then Enjolras spoke again.

“Shall we, then?”

Grantaire frowned, turning around to see Enjolras laying back on the bed in a plain linen nightdress, his arms folded across his chest.

“Pardon?” he said, confused.

“We had best get this over with,” Enjolras said, staring up at the canopy, “Do whatever you must, but try to be quick about it and do not lift my nightshirt past my waist unless you wish to lose a hand.”

Grantaire blinked, momentarily mute as he tried to recall just how much champagne he had had to drink. He had to be mistaken, surely.

“Do not linger by the door,” Enjolras muttered, “Let us get it done with.”

Grantaire scowled, “I am afraid I do not quite follow...?”

“We had best consummate the marriage,” Enjolras said, so matter-of-factly it were as though he thought they were discussing the state of the weather, “My father shall likely have someone check the sheets come the morning.”

Grantaire let out an awkward laugh, “You finally developed a sense of humour...?"

“I do not jest,” Enjolras said, “It needs to be done. I am not particularly happy about it, but it is one of those minor annoyances I suppose I shall have to endure. If it does not happen my father may annul this union whenever it pleases him and marry me off to someone else, and I would sooner die than that.”

“Minor annoyance?” Grantaire echoed.

This was not what he had expected - he had imagined Enjolras would banish him to the floor, or else threaten him with bodily harm if he so much as looked at him indecentlty. He'd pictured Enjolras sleeping with a dagger beneath his pillow - a dagger meant for Grantaire's crotch should he get any ideas above his station.

Not...whatever this was.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to offend,” Enjolras said, “Will you not come to bed?”

Grantaire did not know if he could go through with this.

He was not used to his partner lying there so stiff and detached during the act. It was true he desired Enjolras – of course he did, he had for far longer than he dared admit - but there was nothing arousing about this.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and joined him on the bed, awkwardly positioning himself between Enjolras' legs.

“May I kiss you?” he asked.

“I would really rather you didn't,” Enjolras said bluntly, laying his arms flat at his sides.

“Very well,” Grantaire mumbled, unsure how to proceed. How was he to initiate lovemaking if he could not even kiss him? It seemed absurd. Grantaire had never considered himself sentimental – no, certainly not, he was far more Romantic than romantic – but he had always relished in foreplay, and the tentative, promising kisses that were the precursor to passion.

He didn't think this was going to work.

“Is something wrong?” Enjolras asked after a while, lifting his head a little to look at him.

“I...cannot quite rise to the occasion,” Grantaire confessed. There was nothing of any note happening in his trousers.

“Oh. Is there anything I can do?” Enjolras inquired. Grantaire almost laughed; oh, there was plenty Enjolras could have done to encourage him, of course, but nothing he would have felt comfortable asking from him.

“No,” he said, “It is quite alright, I shall deal with the matter...”

He slipped one hand down his breeches, trying rather unsuccessfully to excite himself enough to do his duty. No luck.

“Am I truly so undesirable?” Enjolras said quietly, swallowing hard.

“No,” Grantaire said quickly, “It is not you, no – you are...I...well,” he cleared his throat, “I have always found you pleasing to look at – before now, even.”

What little light still shone in Enjolras' eyes died, “Oh,” he said, “I see. You are attracted to men, and now you do not see me thus, so---”

“God, no! That is not it! I am attracted to men and women both, but I do not think I could ever see you as anything _but_ a man. And you are divine, truly,” Grantaire assured him; it was embarrassing to admit these things whilst he still had one hand on himself.

“Then what is wrong?”

“I...you do not want this,” Grantaire said, deciding at last to give up; he had given it a valiant effort, at the very least.

“I cannot want you if you do not want me. It feels too much like assault.”

“It is not, though,” Enjolras said, “I have given you leave to do it. I am not against it, nor am I for it. I am neither here nor there on the matter.”

“Neither here nor there!” Grantaire cried, throwing up his hands, “God above! That is not something you say to inspire sexual arousal in someone, Enjolras! No, this shall not work. I will not touch you unless you want this. I shall not lay a hand on an indifferent partner.”

Enjolras huffed, “Very well. What shall we do, then? My father will check, I know it.”

“Oh very well, then,” Grantaire sighed, alighting the bed; he moved to the dressing table, finding a hair pin sitting there. That would do well enough.

“What on earth are you doing?” Enjolras asked, propping himself up on his elbows and watching him in bewilderment.

“Consummating our marriage,” Grantaire said, biting back a hiss of pain as he pricked his finger with the end of the pin. He stormed back over to the bed, squeezing a few drops of blood onto the crisp white sheets.

“There. May that satisfy our families.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said, raising his eyebrows, “I had not thought of that.”

“Evidently not,” Grantaire said, sitting down on the bed, “Shall we sleep then?”

“Yes...of course...” Enjolras nodded, scrambling up on the bed so that Grantaire would have room to join him.

It was surreal lying there beside him, the two of them keeping closely to their own sides of the bed and staring up at the canopy.

“Goodnight, then,” Enjolras said.

“Goodnight,” Grantaire agreed, distinctly aware of the wedding ring on his finger. He leaned over, blowing out the candle on the nightstand and swallowing the room in darkness.

 


	3. Chapter 3

For days Enjolras' willingness to consummate their marriage had sat ill in Grantaire's mind.

Why would he offer his body up like that to someone he so disdained? It did not make sense. Did he think Grantaire some sort of vicious brute, who might try to take him anyway if he had refused? He was many vile things of which Enjolras was entitled to disapprove – a gambler, a drunkard, a lout and a cynic - but _that_ manner of monster? The idea that Enjolras might think that of him had sickened Grantaire to the pit of his stomach.

It had taken the two of them moving in together for him to realise that Enjolras truly had been as neutral on the matter as he had claimed that night. Enjolras it seemed had been neither willing nor unwilling - neither relenting nor eager, neither intimidated nor seduced. 

No, it transpired that Enjolras was simply a pragmatist to his very core, so deeply that it crossed over into all aspects of his life - even the bedroom, where duty was concerned.

Practicality, it seemed, was the order of each day - an immaterial force that drove Enjolras in every regard, from what he chose to wear in the morning to what he ate for dinner.

And once he knew this, Grantaire quickly came to understand his attitude on their wedding night.

In truth he could not fault Enjolras' logic on the matter; an unconsummated marriage was a marriage that could be easily dissolved, and a dissolved marriage would find Enjolras once more at the mercy of his parents' wishes.

It made an unsettling amount of sense that Enjolras should be so concerned with consummating their union – so much sense, in fact, that part of Grantaire feared he might suggest they attempt it again.

But no – that wouldn't happen, Grantaire told himself. The trick with the hairpin had served well enough to convince both their families, and so it followed that there was no reason to do the deed for real. Grantaire's father had fallen for it, at least – he had even praised him, a heretofore unheard of phenomenon. He was the sort of man who would tie Grantaire's virility in with his own as a matter of pride. A failure on the part of the son was a smear on the reputation of the father in his mind. If he had known how Grantaire had balked at his duty on his wedding night he would have hated him even more than he already did.

But further on the subject of Enjolras and practicality; he chose their apartments and made all the necessary arrangements himself, leaving nothing to chance and examining every detail meticulously. They rented out the entire second and third floor of a fine house on Rue Saint Antoine, and in Grantaire's humble opinion he thought there could be no more fitting abode for Enjolras than close to Place De La Bastille.

“We shall not be hiring any household staff,” Enjolras had said firmly, earning them a few strange looks, “We shall conduct all our affairs ourselves.”

“How very modern,” Enjolras' mother had said, which, Grantaire was certain, meant 'how strange' in the world of careful words.

They settled into their rooms on a Monday, and by the same Wednesday Enjolras had managed to amass an entire wardrobe of finely tailored male clothing. It was done with such astonishing speed that Grantaire could only assume that Courfeyrac or Combeferre had been secretly engaging the services of a tailor on his behalf for some time. Grantaire did not ask about it, and Enjolras did not offer up the information freely, and so it remained a mystery.

“There,” Enjolras said once he had dressed, flattening the lapels of his waistcoat in the mirror, “I feel more myself already.”

“You look it, also,” Grantaire said.

It was true; the transformation was immediate and glorious, like the moment of metamorphose from cocoon to butterfly. With the proper attire Enjolras was himself once more, and any illusion of womanhood that had formerly surrounded him disappeared like smoke. It was a wonder what a pair of trousers could do – both to one's psyche and to one's figure; on Enjolras Grantaire could not help but admire both.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, making his way over to the bureau by the window with a look of immense purpose about him.

“I have a request,” he stated, turning his back to him.

Grantaire regarded him warily, “Oh?” he said.

“Yes. You shall transfer my dowry into this account,” Enjolras instructed, and it became clear then to Grantaire that he had gone to his desk with the design of writing down the details.

“I have falsified certain documentation in order to acquire an account of my own,” he said, “You shall see to it my money is deposited there, wherein I shall provide you with a reasonably large allowance to squander how you see fit.”

He handed the slip of paper to Grantaire as one might their secretary, and Grantaire, so hopelessly besotted as to allow such an insult, took it from him without question or complaint.

“You have given this much thought,” He commented instead, tucking the paper into the breast of his waistcoat for safekeeping.

“It is a matter of grave importance,” Enjolras said firmly, “I wish to live as authentically as I can now that I am not confined to my parents' home – naturally that includes controlling my own assets. We shall have very strict rules in this household, make no mistake of that,” he diverted his attention to the mirror again, adjusting his cravat, “The only visitors we shall receive here will be those who make the suffering of mankind their business. I will have no parties here, nor let this household fall into disrepute. If you wish to drink and gamble and whore you may do so at your leisure, but you will do so outside of this house and with discretion. Your name is now mine, and the same is true for me. Take care with it.”

Grantaire blinked, taken aback, “Have I no say in the way our house is to be run?”

“Not if you wish this arrangement to work,” Enjolras said, fixing him with a dreadful look, “Now please excuse me – I have books to retrieve from Combeferre. He has been keeping my collection for me these last few years.”

 

-

 

Sharing a home with Enjolras quickly proved equal parts challenging and enlightening; he was strict and regimented, rising early and retiring late, and his routine proved surprisingly predictable as the days passed. He spent the majority of his mornings working at his desk, his afternoons running errands throughout Paris, and his evenings sitting by the fireplace with a book.

He was severe even in what few pleasures he allowed himself; reading could not go unaccompanied by revolutionary business, for he would occasionally stop to take notes in a diary he left open on the arm of his chair, and Grantaire fancied that even his occasional walks in the park were dedicated to contemplating the subjugation of mankind.

He had banned alcohol from the house, would not play cards, despised the smell of tobacco and where sins of the flesh were concerned seemed wholly uninterested.

Enjolras styled himself as a priest of the Republic, but Grantaire had not imagined he would take the role so utterly literally as to deny himself every vice under the sun. Grantaire was gravely disappointed, in truth; privately he had hoped to learn that Enjolras indulged himself as much as any man, but it seemed he had been proven woefully wrong.

“Have you no other interests but your work?” He grew brave enough to ask one evening whilst sitting across from him in the parlour with his sketchbook in his lap.

For a moment Enjolras did not react, turning the page of his book as though he had not heard him.

“What do you mean?” he asked eventually, not even deigning to glance up.

“I mean that you seem to find no time for yourself among everything,” Grantaire said, “I fear it is not healthy, though I know I am hardly one to comment on habits of health.”

“I am finding time for myself this very moment, am I not?” Enjolras said.

“To read Rousseau and make comments in your diary,” Grantaire arched one eyebrow, “What a thrilling pastime!”

Enjolras finally lowered his book to look at him, brows set in a hard, disapproving line, “It is a _rewarding_ pastime,” he said, so firmly that it seemed as though he were trying to convince himself as much as Grantaire.

“If you insist,” Grantaire said, “But surely there are other hobbies you could pursue? Life is not all your revolution, you realise...”

“Such as what?” Enjolras challenged.

“Oh, too many to count!” Grantaire cried, “Dancing, painting, poetry. There are many fine sports that may suit you – horse-riding, boxing – ah, perhaps not boxing, no - but fencing perhaps? There are cards and music and walks along the Seine. You might learn to bake, or take up botany. Follow suit with many Romantics and take up the business of seances! Heaven above, even sink low, if you must! Gamble, develop an addiction to opiates! Take a lover if it please you, but do something more than your work! There are all manner of wonders in this world, Enjolras.”

Enjolras studied him for a long while, looking as though he was mentally running through the list he had just been presented with with serious thought.

“I know that,” he said at last, “Do you think I don't?"

"It oft seems that way."

"Well I do - and for the record I am not entirely immune to pleasure.”

“Oh really?” Grantaire laughed, “And what but revolution do you enjoy?”

Enjolras pursed his lips, “I do not _enjoy_ working towards revolution, you realise?” he said, “It is a necessity for the betterment of humanity, not a frivolous hobby.”

“Well you certainly could have fooled me,” Grantaire commented wryly.

“Truly, I do not,” Enjolras insisted, “It is engaging, I shall admit, but I take no joy from it. It is my responsibility as a citizen of France to fight for her liberty, and the liberty of my fellow men.”

“If you take no joy from it then you prove my point,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras bristled.

“Fine.” he said, “If you really must make it your business to know what hobbies I relish outside of my duty...”

He dipped his head as though in embarrassment, hiding his face behind a few rogue curls that had broken free of the ribbon he was using to tie back his hair.

“Music.” he muttered, so quietly that Grantaire very nearly missed it.

“Music?” Grantaire echoed, caught quite off guard by the admission.

“Yes.” Enjolras said, “I play the harpsichord. My parents insisted I learn an instrument, and though I went to my lessons quite unwillingly I do find there is something relaxing about it.”

“The harpsichord,” Grantaire wondered aloud, fascinated, “A somewhat outdated instrument, wouldn't you say? I thought that the piano was à la mode of late...”

“Yes, it is,” Enjolras said, “But I prefer the sound of it; it is harsher, but I think there is something haunting about it. I suppose I could play the piano too, but I fear my fingers do not have not the delicacy required to coax the softer melodies from the keys,” he tapped his fingers along the arm of his chair almost subconsciously, as though compelled by instinct to demonstrate what he meant, “The harpsichord offers more resistance...”

“And naturally you are drawn to such things,” Grantaire commented fondly.

Enjolras' lips curled ever so slightly into a smile, but then quite abruptly he seemed to decide that the conversation was growing far too familiar.

“I should like to return to my reading now,” he said, lifting his book up again. And once Enjolras had decided upon something, it was set.

Grantaire smiled to himself, going back to his work – a messy sketch immortalising Enjolras in charcoal. Oh, how easy it was to now envision drawing a harpsichord in front of of him!

 

-

 

Two days later Grantaire learned that their conversation that evening had evidently touched a nerve, striking in Enjolras some disharmonious chord that rang with truth; he approached Grantaire one warm afternoon, carrying himself so rigidly it was as though he went with a gun to his back, and asked if he would like to join him for an evening stroll along the Seine.

He did not look as though the idea best pleased him – far more, in fact, like the notion had come to him as a way to disprove Grantaire's opinion that he had no hobbies.

Grantaire accepted none the less.

They took the route down Rue Saint-Paul to Pont Louis Phillippe, walking stiffly side-by-side and occasionally making small talk about current affairs or the state of the weather. Enjolras walked quickly and with meaning even when he had no set destination, and Grantaire soon found himself having difficulty keeping stride.

“Slow your steps, I beg,” He said as Enjolras overtook him for the fourth time since leaving their rooms.

“Forgive me,” Enjolras murmured, almost sheepish as he paused to allow him to catch up, “It is habit.”

“Yes, I imagine,” Grantaire smirked, “You are not one for idle strolls, I take it?”

Enjolras scrunched up his face in displeasure, making a visible effort to slow his pace, “I like to use my days wisely,” he said, “I do not waste time strolling...”

“Of course you don't. You cannot keep your dear Patria waiting, can you?” Grantaire said, “She is a demanding mistress.”

“Enough of that,” Enjolras warned lowly.

“I was being truthful,” Grantaire protested.

“You were mocking me.”

“I said nothing of the sort!”

“You were thinking it, though,” Enjolras accused, shooting him a vicious look. Grantaire felt the corners of his lips twitch into a smile against his better judgement.

“I had no idea you were able to read a man's mind, Enjolras,” he said, “You ought to put that talent to use rather than become a revolutionary!”

“Must you always be so smart?”

“Smart?” Grantaire said, “You compliment me, Monsieur!”

“Oh let it alone,” Enjolras grumbled, “I am trying to enjoy our walk...”

“And therein lies your problem, Enjolras,” Grantaire said with a smile, “You do not have to try to enjoy a walk along the river, you simply do,”

“Well you are making that remarkably more difficult,” Enjolras said, in a tone of voice that, for a brief moment, sounded so unexpectedly fond that Grantaire near enough lost his footing.

If Enjolras noticed the way he stumbled on the cobbles he was gracious enough not to remark upon it, instead commenting on the balmy summer evening as they crossed the bridge from Île Saint-Louis towards Notre-Dame; it appeared that Enjolras had decided upon a destination for them after all.

 

-

 

They walked for what felt like hours, until Grantaire's feet felt like they might fall off and the city was starting to grow dark around them.

They had talked of everything, Grantaire watching his tongue for once in his life. He had been determined to share at least one evening of conversation with Enjolras that did not descend into a political debate, and it had seemed that Enjolras felt the same, for whenever they veered dangerously towards talk of government he would retract, pointing out something on the street or changing the subject to something Courfeyrac or Combeferre had told him.

The silence that occupied the lulls between their conversation was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable Grantaire noted, but that was an improvement on the tense air that usually hung over them at the Musain.

It was, in two words, quite pleasant.

And, in two more words, startlingly new.

“Your father sounds quite abhorrent,” Enjolras said as they crossed back over the river at Pont Marie; the topic had shifted to their family lives. It was a subject which Grantaire would have been quite happy to avoid, but circumstance had taken Enjolras' right to divulge his secret on his own terms out of his hands, and Grantaire could not help but feel in some way responsible. It seemed only right he open up about his own family.

They were married, after all.

“Abhorrent is a kind word, in this instance,” Grantaire told him, “The man is a monster. I should hope to never resemble him in anything more than face.”

“You are nothing like him,” Enjolras said confidently, with the same air of undeniable surety that bolstered his political speeches. It was as though he did not even entertain any other thought about the matter, and his certainty made something warm bloom in Grantaire's chest.

“You truly think so?” he asked.

“Of course.” Enjolras said, “You may be antagonistic - and often cruder than I personally care for my company to be – but you are not _cruel_. You have never been cruel. A cruel man would have revealed me. A cruel man would have behaved...ungallantly, on our wedding night...” he raised his eyebrows, “You would not take what I offered even when I offered it freely...”

“It is not offering it freely if you only do so because you think it required of you, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, almost wanting to laugh at the absurdity of his statement; he had never imagined Enjolras would offer him such a thing in the first place, let alone that he would turn it down when he did.

“It ought never be that way. Such things should be born of passion, not necessity.”

Enjolras did not respond for a while, looking as though he was carefully contemplating Grantaire's words.

“In that case, forgive me,” he said eventually, “I realise now I may have offended you...”

Grantaire smiled slightly, “You did not offend me, Enjolras,” he promised him, “But you _did_ nearly startle the life out of me with the suggestion,”

At this Grantaire was delighted to see the faintest of smiles cross Enjolras' marble features.

“Forgive me for _that_ , then,” he said, sounding amused.

“Done, and effortlessly so,” Grantaire said, “And should a flurry of passion ever strike you, I may then be of some assistance,” he joked – it was a bold joke he realised, half a moment too late, and it brought a fine flush of colour to Enjolras' pale cheeks.

He opened his mouth to apologise, but Enjolras spoke before the words had left his lips;

“I will keep it in mind," he said, and he shot him a look that could have passed for beguiling, had Grantaire not known better.

“It is a nice evening,” Enjolras said quickly, diverting their conversation again, “I do like the city at night.”

“As do I,” Grantaire said, only too happy to follow his lead, “It is beautiful.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Grantaire did not consider himself someone prone to foolish sentiment, and he was quite certain that nobody who knew him would have disagreed with that opinion; he was not exactly known for his outbursts of passion, save for the rare occasions that he could convince someone to accompany him to bed.

But Enjolras? Enjolras brought forth within him something he had thought quite long dead; romance. 

He had rekindled a flame in his chest, fanning the embers into an inferno, and now Grantaire was as giddy as a young boy in the throes of first love. It was pathetic, in truth, just how readily Grantaire would have yielded to Enjolras' every whim. He would have carved his own heart out of his chest and presented it to him on a silver platter if Enjolras had even obliquely implied that it would please him.

It was a wretched existence to be so beholden to one's emotions, and for those emotions to be so intrinsically linked to another person. As far as Grantaire was concerned he may as well have tied a noose around his neck and handed the end of the rope to Enjolras, for all the good his tremulous heart would do him. 

The gesture he had made that very morning was grand, extravagant not in it's financial cost - for Enjolras would have disapproved terribly of that - but in the sheer frivolity of it. It was only after Grantaire had purchased it and handed over the money that he had realised how transparently besotted he had become. 

There was little other way to interpret the gift than as a present for a beloved – even the man presiding over the auction had commented on it, asking him if it was for his wife, or, he'd added with a wink, for someone his wife was not aware of. 

Grantaire had laughed it off, but taken his leave from that place feeling as though he had inadvertently laid his heart bare for the world to see. 

Yes, wretched indeed - but it was hard not to be wretched of late; over a month had passed since he and Enjolras had shared their walk through Paris, and in that time they had made a habit of it, walking along the river together most evenings.

The summer had been long – a perfect idyll for newlyweds, Grantaire had thought somewhat dreamily – and the nights were light and balmy, filling their nightly expeditions through the city with warm breezes and the smell of gardenias and lilacs. 

Soon their walks had become custom - their route always the same - and with that came a strange shift in Enjolras' demeanour. He seemed to grow less cold, less strict, less severe. He allowed a few bottles of port into the house (a gift from Joly), started to humour Grantaire with the occasional game of chess, and even began to take his meals in the dining room with him, no longer shying away in his study to eat as he worked.

Grantaire was hopelessly lost to it.

Yes, wretched, wretched, wretched, and doomed to disappointment. 

Treating their marriage as a transaction of convenience was growing more and more difficult with each pleasant evening they passed together, and yet Grantaire found himself unable to pull back, unable to disentangle himself from his feelings. He had always been a glutton for punishment, as evidenced by the instrument now sitting in their drawing room.

Transporting the harpsichord from the auction to their apartment had taken him and two other men the best part of a day, but the reaction it received was fine recompense for his efforts, and made Grantaire feel distinctly less regrettable about his decision to buy it. 

Enjolras had returned home late from an evening with Combeferre and Courfeyrac – dinner at Cafe Voltaire squandered with talk of politics, something Grantaire considered a dull waste of a fine summer night – and promptly discovered it, stopping in the doorway and looking every bit a marble statue as he took in the sight of it.

His eyes widened ever so slightly, but beyond this his usual calm composure did not crack.

“What is this...?” He demanded after a long moment of reflection. 

“Seeing as you supposedly play it, one would think you might better recognize a harpsichord,” Grantaire remarked dryly, pouring a glass of port to distract himself from the nervous feeling in his stomach. 

“I know that,” Enjolras said, making his way over to the instrument and laying one hand gently on the embellished casing, as though he thought he might feel a heartbeat beneath his palm.

“I mean, of course, what is it doing in our drawing room?”

“It is a gift.” Grantaire stated simply, “For you.”

Enjolras turned to look at him, stunned.

“For _me_?” He repeated, as though convinced there had been some great misunderstanding.

“Yes.”

His brows came together in confusion, “Why on earth would you get this for _me_?” he asked.

“You need a distraction from your work,” Grantaire muttered, sipping his port, “You said that you found it relaxing to play, did you not?”

“Yes, of course,” Enjolras said quietly, “But...you truly bought this for me?”

“It was not expensive. They are not very popular these days, I picked it up for scarcely anything from a house auction on Rue De Seine, ” Grantaire assured him, “Do not fear that I have spent my allowance – I swear that I shall not be coming to you in a few days time to beg you for more money." 

A strange look danced fleetingly behind Enjolras' eyes, gone so swiftly that Grantaire did not have the time to languish on what it might have meant. He turned his attention to the harpsichord again, running his fingers tentatively over the keys as one might caress the thigh of a lover. Grantaire did not know how he managed to make the movement look so erotic, but he imagined Enjolras could have made any menial task look alluring if he had the mind to. 

“Thank you,” Enjolras breathed, “It is absolutely beautiful...”

“You are quite welcome,” Grantaire said, banishing any lewd thoughts from his mind, “Will you play something for me, one day? I feel we would benefit greatly from some music; this is a very quiet house, by your design.”

Enjolras tapped out a few notes, smiling in such a whimsical way that it seemed as though he could not help himself. 

“Very well,” He said brightly, “I feel it would be only appropriate to thank you with a performance.”

“Good," Grantaire said, setting down his drink, "Well, I shall leave the two of you to get acquainted with one another,” he joked, gesturing to the harpsichord, “I assure you that I shall not listen in until you give me permission to do so...”

As he turned to leave Enjolras caught his sleeve, his hand agonizingly gentle against his arm. 

“Thank you for this, Grantaire,” he said emphatically, “I truly mean it. You do not know how much I appreciate this gesture.”

There he went again, feeding that fire in Grantaire's chest, so voracious that Grantaire was certain it would one day consume him from the inside.

Perhaps such fires were the source of that mysterious scientific conundrum that was spontaneous human combustion. Perhaps one day Enjolras might smile at him a little too tenderly and Grantaire would be reduced to ashes at his feet; such things seemed more likely than this farcical marriage ending well.

“You need not thank me,” Grantaire assured him, bringing his free hand to his and daring to let his fingers brush Enjolras' for an instant; if he was to burn, it would be a glorious inferno.

“It was my choice," he said, "And anyhow I confess that my motives were somewhat selfish in nature; I am an indulgent fan of good music.”

Enjolras' eyes shone with delight, “I shall treat you to a private concert, then,” he promised, “Whenever you wish.”

“I would enjoy that,” Grantaire said; their eyes met, and he could have sworn for a moment that he saw Enjolras bite thoughtfully at his bottom lip. He drew back his hand and turned back to the harpsichord before Grantaire could be sure, sitting himself down at the bench.

“I will need some sheet music,” he said offhandedly, testing out a few chords, “If you should ever find some, in your day to day travels...”

“I will make sure to bring them home for you,” Grantaire vowed, smiling, “Good night, Enjolras.”

 

-

 

In the following weeks their apartment began to sing with music, melodies drifting from room to room and pouring from the windows, often stopping passers-by on the street below as they paused to listen.

The sound of a harpsichord was unmistakable – strangely metallic, ringing the way a piano simply did not. It was charming. Grantaire was not in the least bit surprised to learn that Enjolras played with exceptional grace - of course he did, for Enjolras had the deeply passionate soul that was conducive to the creation of beautiful music.

Private concerts became as frequent an affair as their evening walks did; many nights following their strolls Grantaire would find himself seated in the bay window with his sketchbook, relishing in the sounds of the harpsichord as Enjolras played. Sometimes when Grantaire expressed a fondness for a particular piece he would notice that Enjolras would play it through twice – even three times when Grantaire stated his favourites.

In truth Grantaire took private pleasure in listening to him play, for it was a side to Enjolras heretofore unknown - a side that Grantaire fancied even Combeferre and Courfeyrac were not very well acquainted with. There was something strangely satisfying about the thought that this was a part of Enjolras known only to him; it was as it should be, he thought, so pleasant and intimate that Grantaire could almost fool himself into thinking their marriage was a real one.

 

-

 

One evening as he was enjoying a performance the notes suddenly faltered, and when he opened his eyes to look at Enjolras he saw him studying him curiously.

“What about you?” he asked.

Grantaire frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Do you play any instruments?” Enjolras pressed, “I realise now that I have never asked you.”

“Ah,” Grantaire felt his face grow hot under the scrutiny, “Well, yes,” he said, “The piano, I confess.”

“The piano?” Enjolras' eyes widened, “You play the piano, and you did not think to tell me?” he said, sounding almost betrayed.

“Is that a problem?” Grantaire asked.

“No, but – well, if you play the piano, it thus follows that you can be taught to play the harpsichord,” Enjolras reasoned, still looking so deeply offended that Grantaire felt like he ought to apologise in some way.

“Come,” he urged, shuffling up on the bench, “Sit with me. Let me show you.”

Grantaire would have declined the offer had he not felt deserving of some sort of penance; such closeness would not do well to cure him of his feelings. He went anyway, against his better judgement, when Enjolras patted the cushion beside him again, his expression so sincere that it near as much broke Grantaire's heart. 

He joined him on the bench, feeling their legs brush as he sat down. The contact sent his heart leaping up into his throat.

Enjolras either did not notice or did not care, instead starting to sift through the pile of sheet music that was resting on the case of the instrument. He hummed thoughtfully to himself as he leafed through it, Grantaire watching fondly as he bit his lip in concentration.

“Here,” He said at last, deciding on a piece, “A duet.”

“A duet?” Grantaire echoed as he watched Enjolras set it on the music stand in front of them.

“Yes. Come now, put your hands here,” Enjolras insisted, taking Grantaire's hands in his own to position them on the keys, “You can read sheet music, of course?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Then you shall manage, I am sure. Play a few bars,”

Grantaire did as he was told, acutely conscious of Enjolras' eyes boring into him the whole time.

“Yes, just so,” Enjolras encouraged, leaning in close to guide him; Grantaire could feel his breath, warm against the side of his face.

“Remember it requires a little more pressure than a piano,” He said, “Yes, just like that, very good...”

It ought not have been so arousing to have Enjolras saying such things into his ear, but the shiver that ran it's course down the length of Grantaire's spine was completely involuntary, and he was powerless to stop it.

“You can tell that you are an artist,” Enjolras said conversationally as he began to play his part of the melody, “You have deft fingers.”

Grantaire would have been more than delighted to show Enjolras just how deft his fingers could truly be, but he pushed the thought aside, forcing himself to focus instead on the music in front of him.

It took a few attempts to get it down – three false starts and Enjolras swatting him across the knuckles like a strict teacher – but once they were playing, it was effortless.

For once he and Enjolras did not clash, did not fight, did not disagree. It felt for one dizzying moment as though the music had been written for them and no one else; a strange courtship of chords and harmonies meant only for the two of them.

They played the piece in it's entirety, and as they finished with a dramatic flourish Grantaire could feel his heart beating tumultuously in his chest like a butterfly trapped beneath a glass jar. He exhaled sharply, turning to look at Enjolras to find that he was just as out of breath, as though they had not been playing music but instead dancing a waltz.

“Are you quite alright?” Grantaire asked.

A tinge of red bloomed like roses across Enjolras' angelic face. 

“Yes,” he said, eyes fixed on the harpsichord, his fingers still resting on the keys, “Of course I am.”

Their hands were dangerously close, so close that it crossed Grantaire's mind briefly to lay his on Enjolras'. 

“Are you certain?” He asked, concerned. A terrible look had settled over Enjolras quite suddenly, as though he had been stricken by some unseen force.

“Yes,” Enjolras insisted, drawing his hands back almost cautiously, “Forgive me, but I find that I am feeling somewhat out of sorts this evening,” he said, rising so abruptly from the bench that Grantaire feared he had done something wrong. Perhaps when he had joked previous of Enjolras reading minds he had not been too far off the mark - perhaps he had seen Grantaire's thoughts and was disgusted by them. 

“Was my technique truly so poor?” he joked, hoping to lighten the atmosphere, “It has been some time since I last touched a piano I confess, but I did not think my playing such an awful assault upon the ears that it would cause you to be ill!”

Enjolras did not respond beyond a quick shake of his head, “I think I ought to turn in for the night,” he decided, “I am tired. Goodnight, Grantaire.”

“Have I offended you?” Grantaire dared; Enjolras did not look at him. It was all the answer Grantaire required.

“No,” he said, despite all evidence to the contrary, “Not at all.”

With that last word he was gone, storming from the room before Grantaire could say anything further on the matter.

Wretched. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Not a single note of music rang through their rooms in the days following their duet. For close to a week Enjolras did not touch the harpsichord, did not venture into the drawing room, instead shutting himself off in his study to work.

Though very little was said between them Grantaire was certain that he was the cause of this sudden silence; the gift of the harpsichord had been too intimate, he thought - too honest. They had played a duet together and somewhere in the notes Grantaire's heart had come fluttering out of his chest to make it's feelings known, and Enjolras had recoiled from the sentiment as one might flinch from a raised hand. It was an understandable reaction to learning that a wretch like Grantaire was so besotted with him. 

Privately Grantaire wondered at which exact moment Enjolras had realised he was in love with him. Perhaps it had been when their fingers had brushed as he'd moved his hand to change key, or perhaps it had been when they had finished the piece and Grantaire was left breathless and dazed at his side. 

Either way Grantaire had shattered the harmonious accord that had been starting to grow between them, and he had done so without even realising it.

Of course. 

And so it was that he did not see much of Enjolras in the week that followed that evening. It was partly his own doing, for he did not like to linger in the house like some miserable spectre when he felt that Enjolras did not want him there; he would make a poor shadow for a man as great as Enjolras. 

He kept himself busy, attending dinner each night with Joly and Bossuet at various bistros around Paris, and stayed late when he went to his Thursday night boxing session with Bahorel.

Perhaps this was how he would have to live now - on the fringes, out from under Enjolras' feet.

Damn that harpsichord. 

 

-

 

Grantaire rolled over in bed, still toeing the line between asleep and awake; he had been certain for a moment that he had heard a knock at his door, but perhaps it had been a dream. He lay there for a moment, straining his ears for any sound, but the house was as silent as the grave.

And then, just as he felt himself slipping back to sleep, he heard it again, sure and loud enough this time that there could be no mistaking it for his imagination. 

He sat up, throwing back the sheets.

“Enjolras?” he said, the name closer to a yawn as it left his mouth. It could not be anyone else, after all, but why in god's name would he be knocking on his door at this hour? It was not yet light outside. He knew that Enjolras was prone to rising early, yes, but he had never tried to impose his schedule upon Grantaire, probably aware that it was a hopeless cause.

He could only think that there must have been some manner of emergency.

He flung the door open, blinking in surprise when he saw Enjolras standing there, for he was not as he'd expected to find him; he wore only a long cotton nightshirt, and his hair was loose, falling in soft golden waves around his shoulders. Grantaire had never seen it like that before.

Briefly he wondered if he was asleep after all, for there was something different about Enjolras that he could not quite place; his eyes were dark with some unreadable emotion, glinting like steel in the light of the candle he was holding.

It was as though the Enjolras he knew been transfigured into something else, something that was somehow both otherworldly and more human all at once. He was not Enjolras, no, but some changeling from folk lore that had been put there in his place, or a siren come to seduce him and take his soul.

Grantaire would let him have it, gladly.

He had only a moment to admire this transformative state before Enjolras spoke.

“May I come in?” he asked.

It was an odd question to have put to him at this hour, but Grantaire found himself moving to one side to invite him in almost against his will. 

“I'm sorry to call on you this late,” Enjolras said as he stepped into the room. The look on his face was curious, something that Grantaire could not identify. It was a trick of the light, he told himself. It was the candle flickering in front of him, giving life to shadows where there were usually none.

“I could not sleep...” Enjolras explained.

“Oh,” Grantaire said, thinking that that was a strange reason to have woken him at such an ungodly hour.

He had come to learn from living with Enjolras that he often struggled to sleep, but from what he knew he usually passed those restless nights working at his desk. What had made this night so different that he had thought to come to Grantaire with this problem?

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he offered, watching as Enjolras sat himself down on the bed and set the candle down on the nightstand.

It was the sort of sight that could move a man to tears, Grantaire thought; Enjolras sitting on his bed, clad in nothing but a nightshirt and his hair loose and unruly. It made him ache with longing.

“Yes, actually,” Enjolras said, “Though I am not entirely certain how to go about asking...”

“Speak freely,” Grantaire urged, lingering by the door.

“It is a delicate matter,”

“And not the first you have shared with me,” Grantaire pointed out.

Enjolras seemed to relax at those words, running one hand thoughtfully over the messy bedsheets.

“Very well,” he said, fixing Grantaire with a determined look, “I would like you to take me to bed. If the idea so pleases you, anyway," he added, as though as an afterthought.

For an instant Grantaire was convinced he had heard wrong, for the alternative was unimaginable, and Enjolras had said it with such calm surety that he could not have possibly meant what it had sounded like. 

“Well?” Enjolras asked when a few minutes had passed, studying Grantaire seriously. He seemed to be waiting expectantly for him to gather himself and respond. 

“I...am afraid I do not understand,” Grantaire said slowly, “What are you asking me to do, exactly?”

Enjolras' face reddened and he looked away almost bashfully; coy was not a look Grantaire had ever seen on him before, but there was something maddeningly charming about it.

“I said that I would like you to take me to bed.”

Grantaire's heart leapt up into his throat. There had not been a mistake, then.

“Ah,” he said, mouth going dry, “I...have your parents written to you? Do they doubt the validity of our marriage...?”

Enjolras shook his head, “No,” he said, “This is nothing to do with my family. I want this.”

“You have barely spoken to me this last week and now you call on me wanting...this,” Grantaire said quietly, “I do not understand...”

“Forgive me,” Enjolras whispered, “I am not familiar with these matters, you must understand. I am...fearful of things about myself of which I have no control over. That I began to want this unsettled me, and, like a coward, I retired to my study to try and banish the idea from my mind. I did not know what to do...”

“And now you have decided, then?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, “If you wish me to return to my room, you need only ask. Again I am sorry that I called upon you at this hour, I understand if it was poorly timed--"

“Do not apologise for this, Enjolras,” Grantaire said simply. Now he understood the dark look that had been in Enjolras' eyes when he had opened the door to him, that bizarre, hungry aura; it was desire, that oldest and most unpredictable of masters.

Enjolras swallowed hard, “Well? Would you like to----”

“Yes,” Grantaire answered immediately.

“Truly?”

“Yes. I have wanted you for a lifetime, Enjolras.”

As he said this he saw Enjolras let out a little breath of surprise, his eyes widening.

“But you must make it clear to me that you truly do wish this,” Grantaire continued, “I have to know for sure...”

“Kiss me and I will show you,” Enjolras demanded, sitting up straighter as though emboldened by Grantaire's confession, “Come kiss me and you will never doubt it again.”

Grantaire did not need to be asked twice; he stormed over to the bed like a man possessed, kneeling down in front of Enjolras and kissing him hard. Enjolras parted his lips immediately, moaning into his mouth. It was such a deliciously indecent sound that Grantaire thought he might lose his mind.

He did not think any of his dreams had ever done this justice; he could smell the rose oil Enjolras put in his hair, could taste something sugary in his mouth – likely whatever he had had for dessert at Cafe Laurent – and oh, the feel of his teeth grazing his lip from time to time...such bliss, such sweet raptures, such ecstasies.

No, none of Grantaire's dreams could have ever hoped to touch upon this heaven.

They stayed that way for a while, testing, tasting, a gentle push and pull back and forth as they learned what the other liked. After a few long moments Enjolras pulled away, his breath quivering out of him as though the kiss had stolen all the air from his lungs.

“Grantaire,” he said, and he spoke his name like a plea, enough to make Grantaire's knees weak.

“Did that make it clear to you?”

Grantaire almost laughed - a giddy sound that tried to force it's way out of his chest – but instead he simply kissed him again, sweetly, quickly, full of promise.

“Yes,” he said, “Consider me quite thoroughly convinced.”

Enjolras smiled, shifting back on the bed; it was a silent invitation to join him, and Grantaire took it gratefully. He pressed their bodies flush against each other, feeling Enjolras tremble beneath him. For an instant it had Grantaire worried. 

“Are you nervous?" he asked, concerned. 

“No.” Enjolras lied, thoroughly indignant. Grantaire paused what he was doing, reaching to take his hand with his own and steadying it to make his point.

“You are shaking.” he pointed out. Enjolras looked down, frowning as though angry at his body for betraying his emotions.

“You are an atrocious liar, Enjolras.”

Enjolras sighed, “It is not a lack of wanting,” he explained, "I truly wish for this, you must believe me. But I am new to it and...and frightened, in a manner. I cannot seem to stop myself from shaking so..."

Grantaire brought his free hand up to cup his face, fingers tracing the shape of his cheekbone; his skin was warm and soft, and it reminded him that for all his waxing poetic, Enjolras was not marble after all.

“May I kiss you again?” he asked gently, “Would that help to stay your nerves?”

Enjolras nodded, looking up at him from beneath his lashes, “Yes,” he said, "It might." 

Grantaire did not require further encouragement. He leaned forwards to bridge the gap, Enjolras immediately sinking into it. They kissed deeply again, Grantaire letting his hands find purchase against Enjolras' hips as he guided him slowly onto his back on the mattress. Enjolras went more than willingly, arms coming up to wrap around Grantaire's neck; he could feel his nails against his back, even through the fabric of his shirt.

“I want you,” Enjolras murmured against his lips.

“I want you too,” Grantaire said huskily, as though the obvious stiffness in his small-clothes was not evidence enough of the fact. He ran one hand along the inside of Enjolras' thigh, delighting when he parted his legs readily for him.

Grantaire could not believe he had been permitted such an honour as to have Enjolras writhing beneath his hand, biting back sounds of pleasure. Oh, to see such a thing – to be the cause of it! It felt simultaneously divine and a brutal act of sacrilege, for some part of Grantaire still felt that Enjolras was something sacred that mortal hands ought never touch.

It felt like blasphemy, but when he curled one finger tentatively into Enjolras he let out a glorious cry, and it was the most holy sound Grantaire had ever heard.

The sound made all decency abandon him; he shifted his position to touch himself through his small-clothes with his free hand, desperate for some respite from his arousal, and leant close to Enjolras to kiss him messily on the lips again.

There could not truly be anything wrong with this; they were married, after all. What holier thing was there? 

Grantaire would have been quite satisfied to stay in that moment forever, lost to the noises Enjolras was making, but then Enjolras' hand found the front of his small-clothes and his heart nearly stopped.

“Let me,” Enjolras said, fumbling with the buttons.

Grantaire was not in a position to deny him anything. He felt his breath hitch as Enjolras took him in hand, his movements ungainly and uncertain.

“Is this alright...?” Enjolras asked against his ear.

Grantaire did not care as to the amateur nature of his technique – that was the least of his concerns.

“My god, it is far more than alright,” He stammered, “It is delightful...”

Enjolras smiled, increasing the pace and drawing out another sound of pleasure from the back of Grantaire's throat.

They could only go on in that awkward position for so long, and soon it became uncomfortable, Grantaire having to pry himself free from Enjolras to move. As he did he gazed down, admiring for a moment the way Enjolras lay radiant beneath him, hair fanned out in a halo around his head, his cheeks rosy and his eyelids heavy. The candlelight danced across his features, making him look almost ethereal, and as he looked down at him Grantaire suddenly felt sick to the pit of his stomach.

Enjolras should not have been lowering himself to the likes of him.

Grantaire was not worthy of this; he looked like the muse of an old Renaissance master, a work of art. He belonged in an epic Greek poem or a Roman temple, not in Grantaire's bed.

“Are you sure you want this?” he blurted out, feeling his courage abandon him. 

Enjolras looked baffled, “I had thought I made it clear...”

“Are you sure you want _me_?” Grantaire rephrased.

Enjolras did not respond – he simply furrowed his brow and then pulled him back down to kiss him again, hard and hungry. It was answer enough for Grantaire - not a 'yes' by any means, but not a 'no' either. He wanted him in that moment, and perhaps that would do. Even if this was all Enjolras wanted him for, he was happy to oblige. He could hate himself for it afterwards.

 

-

 

It had been good. Enjolras had not let his inexperience show, wrapping his legs around Grantaire's hips and crying out shamelessly with every thrust. It had been a confusing juxtaposition of feelings; slow and fast, gentle and rough, tender and passionate, and when it was over Enjolras had collapsed against Grantaire's chest, his hair everywhere and his legs shaking, and fallen almost immediately into a deep sleep.

Grantaire envied him.

He lay awake, staring up at the canopy of his bed, distinctly aware of every breath Enjolras took as he slept in his arms. The fire in the hearth had died to nought but embers, and a slight chill had crept into the room, heralding autumn's arrival. Paris was unusually quiet outside his window, and it felt to Grantaire as though the city herself was waiting with bated breath for something to happen.

Perhaps she was - perhaps she felt betrayed.

Patria was Enjolras' mistress, but Enjolras had fallen into the arms of his husband, and Grantaire could not fathom what that might mean.

An hour had passed and the sky was growing pale outside when Enjolras finally stirred, lifting his head and blinking slowly awake. He still wore his nightshirt; Grantaire had been mindful not to lift it past his waist, as he had insisted on the night of their wedding.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Daybreak,” Grantaire told him, “I do not know the hour, though. My watch is over on the dresser.”

“Do not trouble yourself to get up, then,” Enjolras insisted, curling up against him like a contented cat, “You are keeping both me and the bed very warm,” he joked.

“Is that all?” Grantaire asked quietly.

Enjolras scowled, “What do you mean?”

“I...am not quite certain what happened here tonight,” Grantaire confessed.

Enjolras seemed amused, cocking his head to one side, “We made love,” he reminded him, raising one eyebrow.

“Yes, I know,” Grantaire said, feeling himself bristle a little, “But does it then follow that we are now lovers?”

For a moment Enjolras looked mystified, but then Grantaire saw realisation creep into his expression.

“Oh,” he said, “You wish to know what will become of us now?”

“Yes.”

“I had thought I had made my feelings clear?” Enjolras said.

“No,” Grantaire said, sitting up and disentangling himself from him, “I should like you to tell me, so that there is no mistaking."

Enjolras hesitated a while, toying with the sleeve of his nightshirt, “Why did you ask if I was certain I wanted you?”

“Because why would you?” Grantaire muttered, feeling the hairs on his arms prickle from the cold. It made him almost immediately regret moving away from Enjolras, but he did not think he could bring himself to touch him again until Enjolras had answered his question.

“Why _wouldn't_ I?” Enjolras countered seriously.

Grantaire snorted, "I am a wretch," he said, "Far beneath you in all ways." 

Hurt crossed Enjolras' face, "You are not," he said, "And shame upon me if I have ever made you feel that way."

"It is not your doing, Enjolras," Grantaire said darkly, "But do not fool yourself - you know it as I do."

“I do not agree. Listen to me, I pray."

"Go on, then."

"Grantaire, I meant what I said. I thought myself quite immune to matters of the heart. I believed myself meant for other things, incapable of...” Enjolras paused, as though bracing himself for impact, “Of falling in love.”

Grantaire felt his heart give a little leap.

“Falling in love?” he echoed, “With _me?_ Have you lost your wits?”

Enjolras flinched, “If you do not return the sentiment---”

“That is not so,” Grantaire said quickly, reaching to seize his hand, “I swear it, I do love you. But...me? Truly?”

“Of course you,” Enjolras did not look as though he fully understood Grantaire's confusion, “Why anybody else? Has any one else been so good to me? So kind? So understanding?”

“Enjolras---”

“You amuse me and you infuriate me,” Enjolras said, as though he refused to give Grantaire the chance to object, “You do not know all that your presence has done to me of late. Courfeyrac mocks me for it, Combeferre berates me. I am weak over you, and though I despised it at first I have not the heart to fight it any longer. I should rather use my energy to fight far worse things than love.”

Grantaire surged forwards to kiss him, unable to help himself – to hear Enjolras speak of him in such a way made him feel as though his heart might burst. Enjolras let out a little squeak of surprise as he brought their mouths crashing clumsily together, but he smiled into it, touching one hand to Grantaire's chest as though to feel his heartbeat.

Grantaire was sure it was going a mile a minute.

“I love you,” Enjolras said, breaking the kiss.

Grantaire let out a breathless sigh, pressing his forehead to his, “I love you too...”

“This is not what I expected from this marriage,” Enjolras admitted.

Grantaire laughed, pulling him into his arms, “Nor me,” he said, “But I shall not complain.”

Enjolras beamed, “Neither will I. I think I shall sleep soundly for the rest of the night, if you do not want to banish me from your bed..."

"Never," Grantaire said. 

 


End file.
